I hobbled to the little piazza with the trees to meet Claudia at 11:20. It’s a short walk, but I left at 11:08 to be sure I’d get there. Walking was less painful this morning, and I arrived in good time. We were going to Todi.
There’s a ghost town in California named Bodie. For reasons forgotten, I grew fascinated with the place when I was about ten, so on a trip to Yosemite my parents took a side trip so I could say I’d been there. The town’s slogan, as it were, was “Goodbye, God, I’m going to Bodie”.
Todi is not like that. But the road to Todi from Orvieto could draw comparisons, however slight. The road to Bodie was unpaved and seemed about 500 miles long. My father the mechanic cringed the whole way. And it went through the most desolate countryside imaginable. The road to Todi is 22 well-paved kilometers, goes past a beautiful lake through lush forests and stunning cliffs. And is clogged with the traffic of enormous trucks and busses. One feels on the edge of entering paradise at every other curve. Okay, every curve. So maybe the slogan is “Hello, God, I’m going to Todi”.
But I digress.
We went to Todi as the result of heroic efforts on Claudia’s part to secure an appointment for an echo/Doppler exam that was close enough not to devour the entire day. What she went through seemed to have devoured much of yesterday what with calling, waiting for the appointed hour, receiving calls from offices contacted that morning to tell her that had she called again, a morning appointment would have been available in Orvieto, and checking in with Dr. Gazzurra to report on progress. Claudia is a nourisher, and she gives her everything to whatever she chooses to care for, including a host of lost or ailing animals. And friends. Like me.
The actual exam took less than twenty minutes, but probably due to viral-related protocols, we had to arrive 45 minutes early to be allowed access to a series of waiting areas that led to the inner studio. We began outside. Then when two chairs seemed to empty, we asked the couple remaining if we could enter.
“Certo,” the woman said. We complained about wearing masks in hot weather. The inner door opened and names were called, mine among them. We exchanged goodbyes with the couple as if we’d just been to a wonderful concert together. I wanted to hug them, but restrained myself.
The woman in charge of leading us through the series of waiting areas is a cheerful, energetic, kind, attentive person in her fifties (guessing) with hair dyed Italian red, a color almost obligatory for any woman who doesn’t want to wash grey hair in the morning… at least not her own. I cannot describe nor explain how pleasant it was just to be in her presence. No one could have been better chosen for her job, and every medical facility in the world should have someone like her in residence.
I took advantage of the flat floor to pace. Also, to avoid the first few painful steps after sitting.
Right on time, we were let into a small office staffed by a male physician and his young female assistant.
“You begin with me, then he finishes up,” she said. “Shoes and trousers off, please.” Then she directed me to a small set of steps, impossibly narrow and uncomfortably steep for the state of my left leg and foot. With both of us participating in the maneuver, the table was successfully reached, and the exam begun.
I’m glad they’ve training. What showed on the screen was such a jumble of grey globs that I wanted to laugh. I restrained myself, not wanting to cause need for explanation.
They tested everything.
“I leave no stone unturned,” he said.
After questions about pain, lots of grey globs, and pointing often to the screen and muttering, it was affirmed that there were no clots anywhere. Good news. By then, I’d grown so fond of this duo, I wanted to invite them or lunch. Again, I restrained myself.
We stopped in the tiny village at the bottom of the hill leading up to centro storico for sandwiches. Not much was on offer, so we settled for lettuce and tomato between lightly toasted bread. They were somehow utterly delicious.
On the way home, Claudia’s eldest son Tobia called. The small cat that Claudia had been trying to nurse back to health, had died. She wasn’t surprised, but there was a silence as she wiped away her tears.
What we nourish, we grow to love.